


You and Me, Me and Time

by TheAmethystRiddle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmethystRiddle/pseuds/TheAmethystRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never calls Sharon. She can never go back to Budapest. Their pasts are uncertain and their futures no better. He's a man out of time and she's a woman with no time left - maybe that's what draws them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not A Nurse

He never calls Sharon.

He’s not sure why. She’s very nice, and very pretty, and smart and tall and she has this air that he likes, this feeling of strength, like she could hold her own in a fight without flinching. He doesn’t like to pick and choose as if he was customizing a doll (the phenomenon of female objectification horrifies him, and after spending hours reading feminist literature he does everything he can to be aware of those tendencies in himself) but he thinks if he ends up with a woman he would want her to be strong. If he ends up with a man, well, he doesn’t know about that. Sam Wilson sure is nice, and funny, and if he’s honest with himself rather attractive, but he doesn’t see himself ending up with a man, or at least not with Sam Wilson. But who does he see himself ending up with?

He’d always been banking on Peggy Carter, really. The strongest woman he knows. Well, Natasha certainly gives Peggy a run for her money on that front. Natasha Romanoff (is that even her real name?), who rolls her eyes when he calls her Tasha and grimaces when he calls her Nat. Natasha Romanoff, who he finds himself thinking of at two in the morning after hours of poring over Bucky’s info, when Sam is asleep facedown on the table and his eyes are drifting shut. Natasha Romanoff (that can’t be her real name) could hold her own in a fight. Thoughts like that circle his head as he carries Sam gently to the sofa and then crawls in bed himself. Peggy punching Hodge in the face, Tony’s gleefully told story of Natasha pinning Happy brutally in a boxing match.

He drifts off and dreams of curls (red or brown? he can’t seem to tell) dashing past him. He pumps his legs as fast as he can but he’s running underwater, sinking, flailing, forgetting how to swim. A hand grabs him and drags him to the surface. Bucky, falcon wings flapping behind him, pulls him close and whispers in his ear.

“On your left.” It echoes as Bucky lets go and he falls, falls, falls forever into a sky inexplicably bright and blue. Sam laughs from somewhere, and the curls flash by him again. Red or brown? It’s important that he know. It’s important that he see her face, important that he catch her and tell her – tell her – tell her what?

“You running this morning?”

He jerks awake, the dream already tatters in his memory.

“Am I what?”

“Running. This morning. You don’t usually sleep this late, so I thought I’d check on you.” Sam shrugs.

“Yeah, I’m – just let me get dressed.”

“No problem, man. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Steve pulls on his running clothes, the S.H.I.E.L.D. shirt a half-reminder of the previous month’s events. He hasn’t seen Natasha since then, just Tony and Bruce and their endless enthusiasm for introducing him to the pop culture he missed in his century-long sleep. Well, Tony’s endless enthusiasm. Poor Bruce seems more like a harried babysitter than anything else. But when he jokingly asks whether Bruce regrets moving in with Stark the man’s eyes light up and he launches into a gleeful explanation of the scientific work he’s been doing with the new equipment available to him at Stark Tower – Avengers Tower, as some have taken to calling it. When he tries to imagine all of them living in a tower together he laughs so hard and so long that Bruce asks in a concerned tone of voice whether he’s quite alright. He can only nod and continue to chuckle.

“Why you got so many knick-knacks?” Sam asks as he comes out into the living room dressed to run.

“So many what?”

“Knick-knacks. You know, trinkets and stuff. That’s what my grandmother used to call them.”

“I know what knick-knacks are, I was just surprised to – never mind. I don’t know, I guess clutter makes me feel better. It makes the place feel smaller.”

“Why not just get a smaller apartment?”

“In this economy?” he says. It’s a deflection more than an answer, but Sam laughs and drops the subject.

It’s the seventh time he’s lapped Sam when the man calls out to him, his voice slightly breathy from the run.

“Do you think she’s coming back?”

He slows, matching Sam’s pace with some difficulty.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“If she’s alive, she’s coming back.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Have you seen the way she looks at you? She’s coming back.”

“What?”

“You’re in charge of breakfast this morning!” Sam says in a rush of words, and then sprints off. He watches as Sam turns the corner of the Reflecting Pool, but he doesn’t chase after. Have you seen the way she looks at you? Have I? he wonders. Red curls or brown, flashing past him. He speeds up and quickly laps Sam, turning to grin at him as he runs past.

“On your left!”


	2. Budapest

She can never go back to Budapest.

She can never go back anywhere, she thinks, as she hands a Filipino man $1,000 in cash for another fake passport. No S.H.I.E.L.D. now to provide her with credentials, so it’s up to her to fend for herself again. She tells herself she likes it better this way, that she can’t trust anyone anyway, but in truth she misses the security that came with a government sponsorship. She’s gotten soft, probably, but there’s no helping it now. Only getting back into the swing of things.

The passport is excellent, a bargain for the price. She’s always had a sense for where to go for these things, and the charm to get them cheap. She flips through the pages and then stuffs it into the front pocket of her jeans. She now has two American passports, a French passport, and a Russian passport. It’s at least a start.

“So where are we headed next?” The voice on her nine o’ clock startles her, not because she hadn’t noticed him but because she had expected a hostile and not an ally. She relaxes almost imperceptibly. If there is such a thing as being safe, she is safe now.

“ _We_ aren’t going anywhere,” she says nonetheless, turning to glare at her new companion. “You shouldn’t be here, Barton.”

“Your covers are blown.”

“So are yours.”

“I’ve got it handled. Have you got it handled?”

“Yes. I don’t need your help. How did you get it handled so quickly?”

“Stark.”

“Why didn’t Stark offer to help me, then?”

“He did. Is. You disappeared, Nat. We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“It’s what I’m good at.” She ducks behind a food cart, half-heartedly trying to lose him. He’s not who she wants to see right now. She just wants to get to Norway and set up new contacts so she can get back home.

Home. Where did this ridiculous idea of home come from? Even if she had a home with S.H.I.E.L.D. she certainly doesn’t have one now. There’s no headquarters to go back to and no more places she can hide. Only herself and her own skills. And Steve Rogers. One of only two men now that she would trust with her life. What’s she going to do, go running back to Steve like some kind of love interest, falling into his arms with a sigh and a smile? All the things she hates; the shallowness, the transparency expected of her just because she’s a woman. The kind of thing she can never show because even aside from the fact that Steve is a weakness (would be a weakness, she corrects herself, on the off chance that something ridiculous like her falling in love with him would even happen, but it wouldn’t and it couldn’t so that was the end of that), showing emotion would mean showing them she was human. A woman in her business is not allowed to be human.

“You’re not even trying,” Clint says, appearing effortlessly on her three and slipping his arm casually through hers.

“How’s Rogers?”

“Rogers? Fine. Enjoys Star Trek. Spends a lot of time with that Falcon guy. Asks about you.”

“He does?”

“Nah. You wish he would, though, don’t you?”

“What?”

“‘How’s Rogers?’” Barton asks in a mocking tone of voice. “When have you ever asked about one of them specifically? Don’t get too attached, Nat. He’s too good for you.”

“Jealous, Barton?” she asks, pulling on his arm. He grins.

“Of Captain America? Never. He does ask, though. Or he did. You should go see him.”

“I don’t have the time. I have to rebuild my network.”

“I told you, Stark can cover you.”

“I don’t trust Stark.”

“But you trust Rogers.”

“Yes.” It’s that simple. She doesn’t trust Stark; she trusts Rogers. Steve. Though really she should trust no one - the only thing she learned from nineties television.

“So where are we headed next?” Barton asks again. She almost protests, almost makes a real effort to lose him in the crowd, but then she shakes her head and pulls him closer as they approach the airport.

“Oslo.”

“Norway?”

“No, a different Oslo. Yes, Norway.” Barton ignores her sarcasm.

“Let’s get going, then. Who are we today, Agent Romanoff?”

“Well, Agent Barton, I thought today you might be my fiancé. What are our options for identities?”

She allows herself to get pulled into the game and forget Steve, forget home, forget all the things that make her weak in this moment. Just the chase, and her network, and drinks with Barton on the plane to Oslo. If there is such a thing as safe, she will make herself safe.


	3. Oslo

 The first place they go is Oslo.

He doesn’t tell Sam why, but he’s pretty sure the other man knows.

“High spider count in Oslo this year,” is all Tony says as the credits roll on “The City on the Edge of Forever.” He pretends not to notice but it’s hard, it’s impossible, not to give voice to his suddenly pounding heart. Natasha is in Oslo. He’s sure of it. He’s not sure why it’s important (it’s not important, he tries to tell himself, Bucky’s important, but Bucky could be in Oslo so it can’t hurt) but if he has the chance of seeing her he feels like he has to go. Killing two birds with one stone, except he never liked killing things. He was an odd guy to make into a super soldier. One who doesn’t even like killing – avoids it at any cost, in fact. Natasha, though, she does it for a living. She kills easily. He wonders why it doesn’t bother him. Why she doesn’t bother him. She’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, he thinks, all lies and killing and someone he can’t ever take at face value should make him suspicious but instead she makes him happy.

“Dude, are you listening?”

“What?”

They are on the plane to Norway and Sam is looking at him with a concerned expression that he can’t quite understand.

“You losing time again?”

“Am I what?”

“You ever close your eyes and when you open them again you don’t know where you are or how you got there? Like you were in the car and then you think about one of Tony’s dumb jokes and you’re dropping your keys on the table at home?”

“I thought that was just a symptom of Stark’s bad jokes,” he says, half joking and half scared.

“You’re losing time, man. It’s a symptom of PTSD. Blow me off if it’s not my business, but you been diagnosed?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. If you ever need anybody to talk to -?”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence and he stares out the window. What else is there to say?

They touch down in Oslo early in the morning. They grab their bags and then have breakfast in an overpriced café. Neither one of them speaks a word of the language, so they’re forced to engage in a pantomime of pointing and waving to explain their orders to the waiter. The ordeal leaves them both exhausted, but their day is only just beginning.

They are walking across Frogner Park when he sees her. She is half-hidden in a large hoodie, her head ducked low to hide her face below the bill of a cap and her armed wrapped around a similarly outfitted Clint Barton. He almost leaves her be, almost turns and walks away with Sam in tow, but then she glances up and catches his eyes, gives him the smallest of smiles. It is only in his nature to break into a wide grin and wave a hand at her.

“Tasha!” he calls, and immediately feels his cheeks color as Barton’s eyebrows raise so fast they might fly off his face. He and Natasha look away from each other, each inspecting the surrounding shrubbery as Sam and Barton undoubtedly make significant eye contact.

“I doubt we’re here for the same reasons you’re here,” she says casually, effortlessly regaining her cool even as he continues to blush.

“Nah, we’re here on our honeymoon too,” Sam says with a grin, slipping an arm through his and leaning against him. He plays along easily – maybe too easily, given the heartbeat for which Natasha’s smile disappears. But then it is back again, and he wonders if it was only his imagination.

“Too bad we’re undercover,” Barton says with a smirk. “Looks like you said your vows for nothing.”

Natasha draws him aside as Barton and Sam engage each other in some sort of snark-off, Barton with his usual deadpan and Sam with his suddenly deadly gap-toothed grin.

“Bucky?” is all she asks, and he gives a quick shake of his head.

“Nothing yet.”

“I’ll join you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I have some stuff to finish up and then I’ll join you. You’ll need my help.”

He simply stares at her for a moment, then smiles.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I owe you, that’s all.” And with that she turns and walks back to Barton, dragging him off by the arm as Sam waves cheerily after them.

“I’d call that a success,” Sam says as he watches them go. “When’s she going to join us?”

He jumps.

“What?”

“What, I didn’t play interception for nothing, did I? When do we get our third wheel back? We’re like a superhero tricycle, man.” He puts his hands out like he is holding handlebars and then takes exaggerated hopping steps as though he is pedaling, grinning all the while. He can’t help but burst into laughter at Sam’s ridiculous expression, and Sam seems pleased with this.

“She says she has some ‘stuff’ to finish up first.”

“Yeah, well, if I was hanging out with Mr. Biceps I’d have some stuff to finish up first, too,” Sam says absently.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Well, I would!”

He shrugs. To each their own. Maybe it’s a bird thing, he thinks as they head back toward the hotel.


End file.
